


An Ordinary Day

by SylvanWitch



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-27
Updated: 2012-10-27
Packaged: 2017-11-17 02:55:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/546881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylvanWitch/pseuds/SylvanWitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's deal comes due, but the hounds don't have him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Ordinary Day

**Author's Note:**

> Dark, snakes-in-the-brain, S3 fic written in June 2008. Read at your own risk.

It was an ordinary day.

Later, he’d see that the blue sky and high white clouds were a kind of divine mockery, not assurance that he’d chosen the right path but laughter, loud and echoing, that he’d had no choices at all.

But in the moment, unburdened by the perfection hindsight lends, in the dark and sweaty room right out of his worst fever dreams, Sam didn’t know it was sunny.

Dean was beneath him then, writhing.  

Dean, his brother.  

Dean Winchester, hunter.

Writhing.

Not in pain, not out of a need for escape but out of need sure enough—a pure, raw need that radiated from his eyes, just green slits against his straining face, and from the swallowed keening he couldn’t quite suppress.

Sam had taken his time to get Dean to this point.

  
He’d laved a hot line with his tongue from the hollow beneath Dean’s throat to the arrow of fine down that led to their mutual undoing, past the rising shaft, over the sac—so full, so heavy heaving against his tongue—down into the musky hollow where Dean’s most secret flesh gave way to Sam’s seeking tongue.

Sam made filthy noises, as though he were eating his brother alive, as though by tasting his brother’s darkest desires he could somehow own them, and in keeping what was not his also keep his brother, who was not his, either.

When Dean was panting Sam’s name, blaspheming with every plunge of Sam’s clever tongue, with every wet, ripe sound Sam made against his brother’s sweaty flesh, Sam slicked himself with saliva and rose up his brother’s body like a tide, thrusting into him, a breaking wave, until Dean caught his breath, held and held and held it, and then let out a scream he might never have admitted to.

Sam didn’t wait for Dean to adjust, didn’t let his brother still beneath him or look into his eyes, which were full of intention and therefore hidden from Dean’s loving sight.

Instead, he pushed himself into his brother, drove his brother hard against the headboard, striking again and again the same sensitive spot until Dean was pleading between panted breaths.

“Six minutes,” Sam said then, as he shoved his brother toward his climax, all indelicate power.

“Sam,” Dean cried, the name broken with his breath, and Sam looked down into Dean’s green eyes, saw the tears pooled at the corners where his brother was weeping—for himself, maybe, his coming death; for Sam, surely, sacrifice Dean’s first name forever.

Sam raised himself up on one arm, grateful to his father for all those drills, and plunged his full length hard into Dean, so that Dean couldn’t speak, could barely breathe around the urge to scream his pleasure, his pain.

Laying his forearm across Dean’s throat, Sam pressed downward, Dean’s eyes flying wide, his hips stuttering wildly up against the weight of Sam’s insistent thrusts.

Even as Sam laid more weight against the fragile apple of Dean’s throat, his brother did not try to break away.

He closed his eyes, threw his head back as much as he could, opening his throat until Sam could feel the muscles shifting in protest beneath the skin of his arm.

Sam pressed Dean down into the mattress, harder, and thrust once more, upward at an angle calculated to bring Dean screaming into the darkness.

Dean opened his eyes a final time, gave a choked cry, locked his gaze on Sam, and spurted searing semen between them, slicking Sam’s belly and chest.

Sam waited, leaving his arm where it was, watching Dean’s eyes go glassy, watching as understanding slipped away.

Beneath his forearm, he felt something give, and then Dean was gone just as the cheap alarm clock by the bedside set up its raucous warning.

Midnight.

The hounds didn’t have Dean after all.


End file.
